Return on Investment–in Human Potential

Existing Rosebush Growing in August Thanks to Newly Installed Drip System

Imagine turning down an investment that reliably provides a 13% return. That’s the ROI (return on investment) found by a study on “comprehensive, high-quality, birth-to-five early education” by Nobel laureate James J. Heckman and his team. Yet federal budgetary priorities for the current administration have shifted away from social programs, such as early education, that help people in poverty. At the same time, the wealthiest earners and corporations are paying lower taxes. I used to think such policies were simply shortsighted, but after understanding many of the effects of policy changes in the President’s current and previous administration, I believe there is an intentional plan to favor those at the top of our society over the rest of us. 

So here we are almost a decade into an experiment of governing differently. Are we great yet? This solidly middle class person felt disenfranchised from the beginning as programs I held dear and that I felt were necessary for caring for others began being dismantled. For example, as a parent who had been involved in educational accountability and who contacted my senator to no avail about the direction of the Department of Education, I saw a chosen leader who knew nothing about public school programs begin to destroy them in favor of providing funds to parents to use in private education. That’s when it hit me that the goals had changed. What was said sounded like caring for all kids, but the actions showed the opposite. I started to wonder whether the real agenda was to keep smart kids from other classes of people out of competition for college and important roles in society. Reduction in early childhood access is just one of the beginning steps on that journey.

The America I was born into told me that people who worked hard found opportunities. I was privileged to be born into a family that could spend time with me–and provide me with activities such as music lessons, dance classes, sports teams, and 4-H club. And books–so many books. My parents were first generation college graduates–thanks to working their way through school as well as my dad having access to the GI Bill for additional studies after he returned home from Korea. Though we were solidly part of the burgeoning middle class, we needed to make choices–such as setting aside monthly amounts toward buying instruments or my mom taking a second job to help with college costs.

While the America of my birth didn’t offer equal opportunities for everyone, it was in the process of expanding who got to participate and how to do so. According to History.com, “[t]he Great Society was an ambitious series of policy initiatives, legislation and programs spearheaded by President Lyndon B. Johnson with the main goals of ending poverty, reducing crime, abolishing inequality and improving the environment.” Early childhood education and learning was a pillar of the Great Society.

By the time I graduated from college, America was already contracting in ways that would shrink the middle class and reduce opportunities for hard workers–from the bottom or the middle–looking to get ahead. Many of today’s young people–regardless of education level or race or ethnic background–feel as if owning a home, starting a family, or getting a college education are life activities people like them cannot access in today’s economy. Those who can do so often thanks to financial help from older relatives. 

Again, if this were solely about money, surely someone would realize that if fewer people participate in the economy, eventually the economy will slow down.  

I’m more and more feeling like the income inequality is the point. The qualification for who gets to lead is being born to the right people in the right class–which feels like the very opposite of what our country was supposed to be, even if we never really achieved our lofty goals in that area. Many policies especially seem targeted to keep people of color–regardless of income–out of power centers. How many times has our leader touted “good genes”? 

I don’t feel these types of leaders care what studies say about lifting people out of poverty. Despite their love of money, they love the ability to keep all the goodies to themselves even more. No more social climbers with their crazy ideas of spreading opportunities to all. 

Speaking of–the rich, famous, successful, and powerful Dolly Parton died yesterday (Aug. 25, 2026). Despite what many currently at the top of power are saying, I think they would prefer someone like her, who grew up poor, not go on to build her foundation–Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library–that helps families create “richer home literacy environments.” According to the library’s website, it gifted its 200 millionth book in 2023. Thanks to Dolly, a whole lot of kids have had access to a whole lot of books–and learning.

The current leaders don’t seem to want public or private money to bring about returns on investments that lift people out of poverty. How sad to fear scarcity if others also have access and power instead of imagining the abundance we could all create and share if more people participated in economic security. That’s the kind of ROI many of us will keep working toward even as those in charge attempt to crash human potential.

Imagine with me.

Out of Hand

You’ve got to hand it to ICE–they’re practically medieval in their desire to torture those in their custody. Electric shock gloves would have been a perfect tool for any castle dungeon if the technology had been available then–and will be for employees of ICE in 2026, if approved for purchase to be paid for by us, the US taxpayers. 

Turns out these gloves are already in use by some police departments and correctional institutions. Isn’t that special? Especially since using the gloves leaves no evidence.

There are all sorts of caveats about how to use these gloves properly so as to not cause permanent pain or some sort of medical emergency. (What about permanent emotional trauma? Oh, never mind that.) For example, there are suggested limits for how long the shock should be applied–I am sure a person applying them on a non-compliant person will count to the maximum suggested time limit and make sure to stop applying the shock at that point. 

(Side question: If there are known risks, why aren’t the gloves designed to shut down after the maximum suggested time–especially knowing that the gloves will be used in times of chaos and intense interaction? Why ask the user–who may not be motivated to do the right thing–to monitor how long they can be used?)

Note that instructions say the gloves are not to be used on children, the elderly, pregnant women, and the disabled–as if a person can always tell who meets those requirements in the heat of the moment. In fact, many people–even those without a diagnosis–are easily overwhelmed by sensory touch. Add electrical shock to that touch and who knows how the bodies of those people may respond.

And if the gloves shouldn’t be used on children, why did a police department (Omaha Police Department) provide them to school resource officers in Omaha Public Schools? Without the direct knowledge of the local school board or administration. After an outcry from parents and the community, the school superintendent has asked the city and police to stop using the gloves. 

My daughter’s friend recently saw his neighbor being picked up by ICE. That friend is traumatized from watching the cruel techniques that were applied during the encounter–while he could not stop what was happening to his neighbor. If the officers had the shock gloves to use, maybe the gloves would have hidden their actions, but the terror on the face of the person being detained still would have been noticed.

Most people don’t enjoy the suffering of others. I think we need to question those who do and who do it in our names while using our funding. Just say “no” to adding electric shock gloves to the toolbox ICE uses for dehumanizing those taken into custody.  

Show ‘Em Mercy

As I finished my master’s in business, I visited the campus career center for assessments and guidance. I remember that the Strong Interest Inventory asked how I felt about playing board games. But surely I am misremembering that one of the answer choices was something snarky like “Or don’t we like playing games?”. However untrue my memory of the specific answer might be, I really don’t like playing most games. 

Nonetheless, my family has a tradition of playing games like UNO and Pit. Since there’s quite a bit of luck involved, I don’t take too personally the idea that any losses rely solely on my abilities.

That is even truer of the even more ridiculous UNO game called UNO Show ‘Em No Mercy. Thanks to the possibility of cumulatively adding “Draw ‘4/8/10’” cards, it’s possible to get so many (25 or more) that a player is thrown out of the game with a “mercy” rule (ironic given the title).

When various members of our family (my brother, a 14-year-old great-nephew, a 9-year-old great-nephew, my cousin, her adult daughter, my husband, and I) gathered together to play that ridiculous game, it went about how you’d expect–one of us got thrown out immediately and everyone else kept trading hands of 20-plus cards to hands of three cards and back again. No one else got thrown out and no one ever won. We finally had to call the game for time.

Despite my warning not to expect a fair game, our nine-year-old great-nephew had a hard time accepting how the play went. I explained to him how it was a lot like life: sometimes you are winning and sometimes you are losing–badly. And often through no fault of your own. (But let’s face it–maybe we also  shouldn’t have sat him next to his 14-year-old cousin who played strategically to irritate his little cousin. Unfortunately, there are also “players” like that in real life who are out to get us.) My brother seemed as unimpressed as his grandson.

Then it hit me–the two of them know way too much about the capriciousness of life. And my great-nephew learned that way too early (before he turned four) when his dad (my nephew) died around six years ago. That was my brother’s son. And then Life exponentially ramped up the level of unfairness when my brother’s wife died six months later. Dad/son and then Grandma/wife gone just like someone had drawn a card that said to switch hands with someone else.

So maybe this version of UNO is never going to be a favorite game for either of them. But I pray/hope that they both get way more chances in this life to be holding good hands–even though nothing can make up for those really bad hands dealt to them. 

Maybe games are just too big of a metaphor for some of us to handle.

Coming Soon: Shaking the Dust Off Our Sandals

Once upon a time, a man who worked as a contractor built his own family’s home. I didn’t know him, but heard stories from our very reliable neighbor (or “neighbor lady,” as she would have been known in Nebraska). When my husband initially bought this house with his brother and a friend, she had been living next door for over 20 years. Though the county’s records state our house was built in 1947, our neighbor told us the only family who lived here before provided a different back story. The woman of the house claimed they built the house during the war, but could only acquire enough materials to make a basement house. Then, after the war, they added on the top floor.

That back story makes sense to us. The space between the floors is so solid that we had to install two furnaces (thanks heat pump mini-splits for making it so we could continue to stay warm without having to replace our two aging furnaces). The garden-level basement would have been lighter than most basements during those war years when the family all lived mostly below ground.

Whether the house is over 80 years old, or slightly under, the outside spaces–hardscape and landscaping–have grown tired. The soil was played out with the ground collecting water where it shouldn’t. Beetles had claimed our front yard spruce (Ips beetles) and the turf (Japanese beetle grubs). The concrete stairs were crumbling and the back patio sinking. It was many years past time to update those outside spaces. 

I use past tense because we are in the middle of an extreme makeover. As I write, I hear sounds from an earth mover and some sort of saw. Thank goodness the jackhammer noises are over! By now, even the dogs have grown used to hearing muffled voices all day long. 

This is not the post where I describe all the new features because I’m going to have so much more to say when the crew walks away for the last time. But so far they have removed the back patio as well as all the sidewalks and steps. Those earth movers have scraped the dirt until no vegetation remains and have regraded the property so water drains properly. 

I confess that I–just like my dogs–do not do well when my routines are disrupted. When we  allow the dogs out after the work day, they stir up so much dust it’s hard not to choke. Daily we have to dodge obstacles to get out of our yard. Today, no stairs out the front. The next day, avoid the drying concrete out the back. Tread carefully on the access to the public sidewalk. And water, water, water those poor plants in pots we keep moving to avoid the dust, heat, and construction activities. (Thank goodness the crew waters them, too.)

Every day I tell myself the current upheaval will be worth it–which it will. What has been done so far is such an upgrade that people we’ve never seen before stop to talk to us as they walk the sidewalk in front–maybe just to see what is going on. Our house is a visible advertisement for the landscaping company–one that makes their sign in our yard well read.

My husband rues that we are paying slightly more for the upgrades than the house cost in 1985. True that, but the privilege of becoming adults at the time we did helps make such an investment possible. Well, that and holding on to that same house while property values increased. It is really past time to improve our property. Finally–after years skimping while raising kids, time spent focusing on aging parents, and working through our own health challenges. 

For now our house and sandals are full of dust. But soon we will shake the dust off our sandals  and walk into a whole new way of living outside this house that has been home to all the ups and downs of a life well-lived together. 

What the World Wants Today

Today at the end of yoga, the instructor led the class in chanting three oms while we held our arms in “t” formations. My fingers brushed the fingers of my friend sitting and chanting to the right. While I try to pay attention to how long her arms and legs are and reposition so I don’t encroach on her space, today that accidental touch inspired a vision of paper doll chains. Not just paper doll chains, but human chains made from people all around the world reaching out to one another. In that instant I got the message. 

Freedom from so much of the pain happening in today’s world will come only if we turn to one another–and work together to make the changes most of us want. We want governments that work for general citizens, not just for the powerful. We want leaders who abhor cruelty and create policies that lift people up. 

I remember a time when even corporations knew they needed to pander to the consumers by promoting peace and an expanded society. Do I believe Coca-Cola wanted “to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony”? No–but I think the company figured out that if it promoted the type of inclusive community sought by so many groups in our society at the time, they were going to sell more drinks. If it took saying “it” was the real thing and what the world wanted then to do so, then so be it. 

After the last ten years, I don’t think it’s just people who can remember that song (from 1971) who want a more peaceful world. There really are so many of us who think our countries have stopped caring about what makes life worth living for the many and have turned back to working for the benefit of the few.

But the math is in our favor. Join hands and demonstrate to those in charge that the real things we want now are not what they are promoting. In fact, what we want can be expressed as the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness declared by a certain group of men just over 250 years ago–a declaration that introduced a new way of governing to a world desperate to break free from living in such a way that what most people wanted didn’t matter.

The bonds we choose together are stronger than the bonds forced upon us. Those bonds are the real thing.

The Land Is Our Land

Celebrating the USA’s 250th birthday with an all-states state fair is on target. However, the execution has fallen short of recreating the experience of attending a state fair. Maybe not enough Midwesterners were involved with planning it–but I think the people in charge also didn’t understand that a state fair is supposed to bring all kinds of people together. Those whose livestock and home-baked goods are being judged as well as people who love to eat junk food or ride the rides that make you regret all that food. 

But for several of us, our biggest experiences with county and state fairs come from being involved in the youth program called 4H. The skills we built all year in 4H grew into projects (including the living project of raising some form of animal for many kids) we took to the local fair to compete for ribbons: purple, blue, red, white, or–God forbid–green (did not meet specifications of the guidelines). The very best offerings from the older kids went on for judging at the State Fair.

While in 4H I learned from a variety of subject areas and activities, such as sewing, modeling my sewn clothing, presenting demonstrations, baking, painting, photography, and decorating, my club’s main focus was always performing at the annual song contest. When my mom began leading our group’s singing, we weren’t old enough to qualify to compete at the State Fair. Once we were, we worked toward moving on to perform at the State Fair. Some years we only sang at the off-site judging stations and other years we also went on to perform on stage at the fair itself.

The competitions required us to perform one patriotic song, in addition to allowing a more general song. In order to keep our musical set fresh each year, we cycled through a variety of patriotic songs. Because the competition limited our singing time, we didn’t sing full versions of those songs. However, since we needed to raise funds to travel to the fair, when we hired ourselves out to sing for local groups, we gave the audiences unabridged versions. Our renditions often brought tears to the eyes of those listening, especially those from the generations that had participated in and/or lived through World War II. We understood patriotism from their faces in a way we and our 1970s peers had not been forced to experience.

Today, as our country celebrates its 250th birthday, I realize my generation and those that followed took so much for granted. I long for the type of collective allegiance to our country I experienced growing up and while attending those county and state fairs. One of my greatest heartbreaks followed my mistaken belief that those fellow fair-goers from long ago would reject the divisiveness brought by a city slicker who did not understand the importance of working with our hands to create the fruits of our lands, towns, and homes. But they did not–and now the people and lands I knew no longer feel like home to me.

When our group sang the words of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land,” we did so with a shallow understanding of that song. To us it sounded nothing like the protest music of the 60s. But we were wrong–protest music of the 60s followed from Guthrie’s lifelong work. (Check out the recording and the lyrics on the Guthrie site–I challenge you to try to listen without tears in your eyes.)

Of all the patriotic songs I sang with my 4H group, this song calls to me most in this moment. I want to believe in the words in the way I casually believed in them so many years ago while standing on that stage at the State Fair. I DO believe them–and each day it seems more and more of us do, too. I am still longing to find my home again with the people and lands I once knew.

It’s time to return our country to the values represented at county and state fairs all over this great country.

Here’s to these lyrics from Guthrie demonstrating where we are moving now: 

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving, and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

May the fog be lifting. Chant it loud: This land is our land. Happy 250th, America! Here’s to happier days ahead–and soon.

Supremely Unhappy Birthday to Me–and to the USA

Back when I was a low-information voter, I didn’t consider June a very political month other than when voting in municipal elections. My state now holds primaries in June, but most of the biggest political news comes from the end of the year for the Supreme Court. Many late-June decisions finalized over the last 15 or so years have taken the shine off of my birthday month–or my birthday itself.

Since the Court opened up a role for big money in our elections, decisions that upset me and many others have accelerated. Corporations have rights, just like people. But . . . case after case reduces the rights of those people. Our one vote/one person politics can’t keep up with those who can sweeten the pots for politicians or judges. 

And there seems to be a lot of money out there going to undo many rights decided during my lifetime–which is over 60 freakin’ years. The society I grew into is being dismantled. Women, people of color, LGBTQIA+ individuals, immigrants, and just-plain citizens have fewer rights than at any time that I have known. 

At the same time, corporations are receiving decisions that say they shouldn’t have to put up with rules that limit their ability to make money just because their products cause cancer and foul our air, water, and soil. People of privilege are being told that, yes, it’s discriminatory to them if people who have been historically held back are given redress for past societal wrongs. In fact, the Court keeps smacking down anyone who thinks any unequal treatment should be addressed–unless it seems the privileged feel badly treated.

Our Supreme Court keeps working to legalize mistreatment of people–and to return to the type of 18th and 19th century decisions that favored the Animal Farm philosophy of “everyone is equal but some are more equal than others.” 

I am tired of the ugly effects of these decisions. Women dying from pregnancy emergencies. Black and brown voters losing representation. Exposing people to cancerous chemicals without protection. Sending refugees back to their countries of origin–or other countries–regardless of the danger there. Turning away people seeking asylum. Elevating the president’s ability to do almost whatever the current president pleases regardless of precedent or culpability–even though I doubt such leverage would be applied to a leader of the other party.

I’m also tired of the inconsistent application of the Constitution. One day originalism is the reason behind a decision. Another day an explanation of what the law means in today’s world rules the day. I always thought law was supposed to be rational and balanced, but even laypeople can see that the line of logic doesn’t hold from one decision to the next.

Here’s to another year of a not-so-happy birthday to me and the people who thought the Supreme Court had the backs of all the citizens–but have found out instead that it’s another “pay-to-play” power space that has turned its own back on the democratic role our founders intended.

What a “supreme” way to honor the 250th year of the birth of this nation–not.

Striving to Return to Higher Ground

Election night 2008, elation rose up in me as I heard the results. And, just like that, the emotion dissipated. My daughter in high school had gone through a bad breakup, where periodically the ex liked to torment her online. Somehow the kid and his mostly rich-boy friends thought it would be fun to include her in a Facebook chat where they spouted racist nonsense about our future president. He knew she disagreed–this was no doubt an attempt to “trigger” her, a verb new to us in our family at that time.

Even worse, the Facebook of that era was designed to engage people, even though I think the algorithm had yet to be configured to trigger people. But the function did not yet allow people to drop out of group messages. That meant she received notifications of every awful interaction. 

Due to her worsening mental health, I had to first worry about her. But I took note of the almost instantaneous reaction. Surely those boys weren’t the only people in the USA who were denigrating the future leader of the world. 

So much water has flown (backwards?) under the bridges since that November night over 17 years ago. At the risk of mixing metaphors, once this country opened that Pandora’s box of reactions to a specific visible trait of the man, a whole lot of ugly has flown out. Racism in many forms is publicly back in style. I bet those now-grown guys, like so many others, stopped feeling the need to contain their racist statements to private communications.

I cried last week while watching the grand opening ceremony of the Obama Presidential Center. Anyone else? How many of us who voted for the 44th President understood the dangerous backlash that would rise up at the audacity of electing a Black man to the highest office?

But how many of us who watched the ceremony felt grateful for the temporary returned focus on a man who set out to represent all of us–and for the class of every single person who spoke or performed that day? We remembered the dream–not just that our country already was a great country but also that it can still change its course and work to include even more citizens in the American dream and its greatness. 

It’s up to us–those who were reminded by the dignitaries, speakers, performers, and ordinary people in attendance–to keep reaching for a return to higher ground. “Sleepers just stop sleepin’”–now, let’s make sure it won’t be too long.

Return to Dignity Over Vulgarity

“We don’t do that” was a phrase my mother regularly spoke. And, “vulgar”–that’s a word I often heard my mom spit out when I was a kid. Since Mom said it with such conviction, at first I thought it always meant something really bad. At its core, vulgar can simply stand for the term “common.” However, I wasn’t wrong to think that when my own mom chose to use it, she was pointing out something rude or harmful–bad manners, if you will. 

Actions or words that are common are not necessarily vulgar. But Mom was definitely  pearl-clutching about something she didn’t approve of when she said it. I guess that makes her an elite–if you think elite people can grow up on midwestern farms and end up in the solidly middle-class profession of public school teachers. 

You can also call me an elite if you think people who disapprove of having a UFC cage match on the South Lawn of the White House are elites. I do believe the White House and the Lincoln Memorial represent the best of our country and deserve to be limited to hosting events worthy of being preserved in history.

Don’t worry–the UFC event is now part of our historical archive, even if we pearl-clutchers think the activities performed there were beneath the august purposes of our most elevated common spaces. 

A competitor throwing up on camera in front of the Lincoln Memorial, men in shorts parading through the rooms where it happens, fighters beating up one another in the ring and shouting coarse comments–that all seems vulgar to me.

But even more vulgar is packing in only people who can afford the exorbitant price to watch close-up while advertising products sold by the leader of the free world and his family–while charging the common people money to watch from afar. That real elites watched ringside seems an indictment on what constitutes elitism in this age.

However, the most vulgar action came when the winner kicked down at an uncommonly classy living historical person by crowing a comment that managed to be both racist and sexist. AND the crowd and dignitaries laughed at the type of cheap dig you’d expect from a fourth-grade boy who hasn’t learned to filter his thoughts for the setting where he speaks. Except–we live in vulgar times with a vulgar leader who cheapens all of us. What that fighter said seemed appropriate to many, with defenses of his speech rolling in from voices in high places but no formal comment of any kind coming from the top of our government.

When young, the United States of America fielded mockery about our burgeoning country’s lack of culture and refinement. While the elites of the world held their noses, our common people grew and developed an uncommon country that purported to extend the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness to all (even if the application of such high standards has been flawed). In honor of the country we have been, I want to shout out “we don’t do that”–regarding the recent UFC match and so much more.

But we do–do that, that is. For now anyway.

Those of us who are common but not nearly so vulgar as the vulgar elites in charge need to keep fighting for a return to American dignity. 

Picture Me Happy

Renewed Goal: Achieving “Buff” Arms Like I Had In 2020

Pictures of me are going to be in a medical journal–images of my arm and shoulder anyway. My face will be blurred-out like someone in a witness protection program. Yesterday I returned to see my orthopedic surgeon, three days short of two years since he performed surgery on my left shoulder–a surgery that worked! My atypical fall and fractures in 2023 eventually led me to three doctors, two surgeries, and 96 physical therapy sessions. As time passed, it wasn’t a given that I would recover from my injury.

But in a “third doctor (?) is a charm” vein, the doctor who performed that second surgery was both experienced and creative enough to take on the malunion formed when healing led to development of a massive bone spur. I always say that he put together a Franken-surgery (as in Frankenstein, not Al Franken!) to get my shoulder back to working as it should. But I don’t mean he cobbled together body parts from others or even used hardware on me to help me heal.

What he did do was analyze the likelihood of the possible problems behind my shoulder limitations, get pre-approval for the proper medical codes for any of those problems, and then perform the surgery based on the conditions he encountered when he got into the surgical site. Once in, not only did he discover he only needed to do the least amount of rework he had expected, but also that the work did what was necessary for me to finally recover.

I’m not going to lie–following the healing protocol was torture for me–but not because of pain. No, my pain went away fairly quickly–which was the first miracle. But spending six weeks sleeping in a serious sling–and suspending any exercise but walking in that sling in that hot summer–made time slow down. I wasn’t even allowed to carry a full water bottle in that hand for weeks! And my physical therapists received a prescription for me that forbade them from making me work hard–which was the opposite of instructions they had received for the eight months prior to this surgery. 

I am not a patient person, but I waited. I had lost so much time and choices already–but I didn’t want my losses to be forever-losses. Thanks to the surgeon, my physical therapists, my following the instructions, and maybe grace from God, when I was allowed to work out again, all (!) I had to do was build up my muscles and endurance. Surgically, the results had exceeded expectations.

So even though I hate the process of getting back in shape, I remain grateful I got that opportunity to return to all my chosen activities–with no restrictions. I can work out, but as important as that is to my happiness, other renewed abilities ensure I do not remain disabled by my injury. Because I can lift objects over my head, my risk for needing assisted living as I age has gone down. Not only can I put my carry-on in overhead bins when I travel, but I can also lift my arms in the ways required to go through airport security without being pulled aside. I can do activities for myself–like shovel snow, carry in groceries, or paint walls. My now-healed shoulder allows me to remain independent by acting my age–or even younger than my age, which has always been my goal!

My life and options shrunk when I shattered my arm–and further when it didn’t heal properly. I am happy to report my horizon has expanded once more thanks to my successful surgery and recovery. Words cannot convey my joy at regaining options–which is why I am happy to be included in my surgeon’s future journal article. Knowing that other surgeons will help people to reopen their horizons increases my joy exponentially.

I think those pictures of me need to be more than blurred–the journal needs to hide my identity using those huge smiley-face heads used to protect the identities of children. “Clap along if (I) feel like a room without a roof–because I’m happy” I can clap my hands above my head and behind my back–and do so much more than clapping.

Picture me . . . happy.